


Rota Fortunae

by pravdagirl



Series: On the Surface of All Things [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Stiles does magic yay!, first fanfic in years what am I doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:56:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pravdagirl/pseuds/pravdagirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At sixteen, his faith was in other people. At sixteen and change, it was in himself, because holy shit other people occasionally wanted to *kill* him.</p><p>At seventeen, he learned the gods were real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rota Fortunae

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fic in probably five years, and the fic I used to write - many fandoms ago, on defunct websites - was pretty crap. I don't know if this is any better.
> 
> This will be a series, likely to consist of fragments that build to a whole. Expect non-linear, multiple POVs, and probably some creepy. The idea hit me today with all the momentum of the world, and I couldn't resist. Inspired in very odd ways by Neil Gaiman and Lois McMaster Bujold.
> 
> Yes this is a Stiles-does-magic-yay story. Kinda.

When Stiles was little, his parents took him to church. Just a few times, each holding one of his hands, whispering in his ear that if he'd just try and stay still a bit longer, they would stop for ice cream after.

His mom was raised Catholic, his dad Episcopalian, but neither really kept it up after moving from home. Sundays were more often for catching up on paperwork, or sleeping in and then making waffles. They only took him out of some vague sense of duty, quickly shrugged off when he showed no inclinations for the comforts of ritual. Back then, he believed with the nebulous faith of a child whose parents didn't. He believed more in Sunday brunches on the couch, curled up at his mom's side watching Finding Nemo, while his dad scribbled on rustling papers at the dining room table.

Then, his mother died.

There wasn't a service; her parents had already passed, and what faith his father had was drowned with weighty grief. Instead, they stood quiet in the cemetery with acquaintances and co-workers, and there was no priest. His best friend's mom, grown close to the family via their children's friendship, read a poem; his dad gritted out a few jagged sentences, and Stiles avoided his hand as the coffin lowered, not wanting to feel the other hand left unclaimed.

And so he believed in his mom's laugh, and in his dad's self-destructive sadness, and tucked the feel of hands-in-hands and whispered promises and Sunday mornings into the corner of his heart marked 'faith,' and hid it deep.

At sixteen, his faith was in other people. At sixteen and change, it was in himself, because holy shit other people occasionally wanted to *kill* him.

At seventeen, he learned the gods were real.

They weren't the gentle, quiet god of his childhood, of hands held and wooden pews, or hidden memories, but brash, and violent; gods of earth and wood and vengeance, who *could* be placated but were just as likely to ignore a plea on a whim.

And it wasn't like their help was the omnipotent hand of a god reaching down to smite their enemies, any way... it was more that, if they liked you and were happy with what you offered them, and maybe they thought your enemies were real dicks or something, they would give you a little healing boost maybe, or provide a handy rock for you to trip over and avoid that bullet. And if you got a concussion from that fall, at least it wasn't a bullet through the neck now was it?

He didn't sleep, and he researched, because he was good at that, ok, he was *stellar* at that, and he learned who to ask. Perun, Svarog with a pinch of gunpowder lit with sparks from a knife for strength of weapons, Davor, Selvans, Fufluns, Fortuna (always Fortuna, with wine poured on to clean earth; Fortuna was his favorite), Vertumnus, Larunda for hidden things, Mercury with a swirl of ink in water for a swift tongue. They were the gods of his ancestors, though not of his parents, and they lay on top of every part of the world like dust, like light, like mist, if he could only figure out how to ask.

If he could figure out how to believe. To believe, and to send his belief with urgency to those with ears to hear.

He was seventeen, and went looking for gods.


End file.
